Tale of a Makeshift Cutlery Drawer
by Inglorious DMK
Summary: Germany’s woken up in any number of strange scenarios, but it’s terribly more distressing when it’s one of his own creation.


The first time Germany woke up to find his arm slung almost possessively over a sleeping, stark-naked Italy, was more than a little distressing. In fact, if he were to think about it, it was probably even more of a shock than the first time he'd awoke to find a sleeping, stark-naked Italy in his bed, period. Italy, after all, was Italy, and Germany had entered in to their little pact expecting a few strange things to happen. This, though, this... _spooning_, was apparently done of Germany's own initiative, and that was far, far worse than having to wash naked Italian cooties out of his sheets every afternoon.

In any case, at finding that he'd put himself in such an awkward position for no immediately apparent reason, Germany was so taken aback that he stayed in said pose for no less than forty minutes thereafter, which resulted in two things. First, Italy woke up and made what Germany could only assume was some sort of absurdly high-pitched Italian mating call at the discovery of Germany's arm firmly around his waist. Second, after letting the warmth of Italy's body tingle up his arm for an inordinate amount of time, Germany came to a most horrifying conclusion: he kind of _liked_ it.

Ridiculous. After quieting Italy down and apologizing to a ruffled-looking Austria, Germany decided to chalk up the morning's antics to hallucinations and leave the whole... _snuggling_ nonsense behind him. Germany's resolve, however, did little to alleviate the googly-eyed stares Italy kept shooting him while he tried to jab coloured pins into a map of Europe for reasons he'd now completely forgotten.

"Stop that," Germany grumbled.

"Stop what?" Italy's chin rested in his hand and Germany could practically see the hearts fluttering over his head. Germany had the urge to pop one, but just sighed and said "Never mind." Maybe he was imagining it.

"Mmmmm." Italy slumped forward, his entire body having apparently devolved into warm mush. "Can I sleep in your bed tonight?"

"Don't you always, anyway?"

"Oh Germany," Italy said, tilting his head to the side and grinning like an idiot, "Stop being so _coy_." He said it with flourish, and Germany could see those damn little hearts trailing off the end of it.

Coy. _Coy_. Really, that was the last straw. It was just a little unconscious snuggling, hardly even his own fault, really, and he curtly told Italy as much. "The more I think about it," he said, "the more I think it's highly inappropriate for you to be crawling into my bed every evening. You're a grown man, for God's sake."

"But you're the one who propo—"

Germany flushed bright red (which Italy happened to find absolutely _precious_, though even he had the foresight not to mention it). "We made a pact not to bring that up, Italy! Oaths were sworn, books were burned, it _never happened._"

"Yes," Italy agreed, "But see, _then_ you spooned me, and I liked it."

"Well so did I, that doesn't mean—"

"You liked it?"

"I never said that," Germany back-peddled.

"You_ did _just say it, though! Just now!"

Germany cleared his throat. "You misheard me."

Italy sighed and pouted and needled Germany endlessly for the next half-hour, but eventually let the subject drop with a promise to cease his nightly migrations to Germany's bed. That, Germany figured, was the end of that. Really, with Italy sprawled out across his bed every night it was no wonder that such a situation had eventually come up, and now with the matter well in hand he could put the whole mess behind him.

"Well, you said you didn't want me sneaking in here anymore," Italy said when Germany opened the door on what he'd assumed would be an empty bedroom, "So if I just go to sleep here to begin with it should be fine, right?"

Germany covered his face. "I don't think you've grasped the point," he said, knowing that it wouldn't do any good. He could hear the rustle of sheets as Italy slid out of bed, his bare feet padding on the floor. When he pried Germany's hand from over his eyes, he was smiling.

"Can I stay here?" Italy asked, already knowing the answer.

"You're ruining me," Germany informed him with a scowl.

"Gosh," Italy laughed and ushered Germany under the covers, wormed into his reluctant embrace, "I sure hope so!"


End file.
